


Revelations

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Allusions to period typical homophobia, M/M, One Shot, terror bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: “There’s some modicum of protocol that must be observed, even now,” Francis continued, “Especially now. We both know what’s on the books…and you have no obligation to serve a captain that you know to be…partaking in things inappropriate of his rank. Of any rank in this institution..."
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Captain Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> for the terror bingo prompt "a modicum of protocol"

_Damn Fitzjames_ , thought Francis with a fire, _damn the man twice over!_ —For his peacockish vanity, for their pettish squabbling, and, most deserving of this damnation, waiting so long to show him some sign, some catalyst for the both of them to give in to these shared, base desires that had simmered and seared in unspoken secret near-since their sister ships had left Greenhithe.

If one could express all this with their teeth and lips, he surely did, his mouth buried into the crooked heat at the base of Fitzjame’s neck, his hands anchored in the man’s once rakishly styled head of hair. The commander’s dusky baritone proved how high of a pitch it could muster, as he blubbered Francis’ name—so damn English-proper—before recapturing Francis’ whiskey-chapped lips. 

The exact chain of events that lead to Ftizjames, all six-something feet of him, sitting astride his lap with knees knocking carelessly against either armrest, would probably allude Francis if he were pressed to supply them. His mind narrowed to the singular goal of worming his rough hands under Fitzjames’ linens and canvasing the warm, flat plane of his back. Even as far as he loathed to admit it, Fitzjames was gorgeous—and ever the more handsome heavy-lidded and wanton, seemingly desperate for Francis, even if the reasoning behind such desires evaded any reason logic could provide. 

“ _Oh_ —oh God,” Fitzjames groaned, as Francis cupped his backside with both palms, nudging him even closer, the decorated commander altered, transfigured, to soft, malleable clay in his grip, mouth put to far better use than telling and retelling his glory-hound-tall-tales.

If Francis couldn’t have his place as the expedition’s first, couldn’t head the scientific observations as he was due, couldn’t have the friendly warmth of James Ross at his side in this accursed place, or Sofia Cracroft as his bride–by God, he could have _this_. The other man was giving himself gladly, passionately—And, perhaps, this compromise was what Francis truly wanted and deserved.

Keening into him, flooding Francis’ nose with the tropical scent of Macassar oil, Fitzjames whispered against the spit-wet line of his mouth. “Francis, I want-”

Terror’s captain never learned what he was going to say.

The door of the cabin slid open in one brief movement, lacking the decency, even, to give its customary creaking groan. Thomas Jopson was framed in the oil-yellow light of the doorway, tea tray in both hands. His mouth was open, to make some sort of polite announcement, but no sound came from it. He seemed frozen by the sight of them, like a wide-eyed hare on the green Summer glens of Francis’ youth.

A lesser man would have no doubt dropped the tea set.

Fitzjames sprang from him instantly, his boots taking to the floor with a resounding clatter as he righted his clothing as well as he could. To any proverbial fly on the wall, the entire tableaux, with it’s three wooden figures, would have been quite a theatrical sight.

“Ex-excuse-” Jopson made to leave, but with one look and gesture from Francis, he was rooted to the spot.

Fitzjames addressed Francis, his eyes deliberately avoiding the steward. “Remedy this situation. Immediately.”

It wasn’t spoken with malice, but a broken pitch Francis recognized as fear, despite any guise of haughtiness shielding it. Without another word, or any formal excuse of leave, Fitzjames was gone. 

Setting down the tray on the side table, he did as he was told. “I didn’t see _anything,_ Sir. Only two officers in conversa—”

“ _For Christ’s sake,_ Thomas,” Francis resisted the urge to bring his fist down upon the table in front of him, if only because it might have invited more attention from outside the Great Cabin, “I know for a fact even you aren’t that God-damned naive.”

The steward visibly startled at the sound of his own Christian name, a rarity typically reserved only for far more congenial circumstances. His mouth was drawn in a tight, uncomfortable line.

“There’s some modicum of protocol that must be observed, even now,” Francis continued, “Especially now. We both know what’s on the books…and you have no obligation to serve a captain that you know to be…partaking in things inappropriate of his rank. Of any rank in this institution. I won’t stop you from reporting what you saw to Lieutenant Little, as the next ranking officer. I only ask that any reprimanding action be suspended until after our return to English soil, and that Commander Fitzjames’ part in it be—”

Laughter, tightly-strung, nervous and no doubt compulsive, bubbled from Jopson’s lips, filling the space between them with the unorthodox noise before his gloved hand could move to cover its source. This attempt proved futile, as his shoulders began to shake with the force of these compulsions.

Francis gaped at the display. “What on earth is so funny? You’ve just found your captain in the…the…throes of perversity.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. I apologize. Truly. It’s just—” he looked as if he was trying his best to compose himself, the apples of his cheeks still glowing pink. “If I were to report what I had just seen moments ago to Lieutenant Little, to— _to Edward_ —I would be the greatest hypocrite the Royal Navy has ever seen.” The words had come in a flurried rush, followed by a widening of eyes that more than suggested a lack of forethought in sharing them. It seemed quite likely that he had revealed more than he had intended.

A silence descended on the Great Cabin, hung with an awkward tension so potent it might have brought an instantaneous Spring thaw to the ice that encapsulated them.

“Edward?” Francis repeated, dumbfound. _He couldn’t be implying…? Jopson, of all people? And Little? If there were any two men aboard who seemed so entirely in opposition to any breach of protocol…_ “Lieutenant Edward Little…and you—” There had been something unmistakable in his tone, a familiarity—intimacy even.

If Jopson’s cheeks were pinked before, now they were practically radiating heat. He bit his lip, studying his own boots. “As I said, Sir. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary this afternoon. Anything at all.” He looked up again.

It was simply impossible to imagine, every image his mind’s eye conjured strangely comical and disjointed. Had he been so blind, so distracted to not notice such a thing between two men whose day-to-day lives orbited so closely around his own. Was this lapse a product of the severity of their circumstances? Or was his own insobriety, the only way he could cope with such circumstances, taking a heavier toll in his faculties than he imagined? Perhaps nothing else could be gained from this internal speculation, he mused, and that his priority should be the true matter at hand: how they would proceed,

He folded his hands across his lap, in some attempt at a typical captainly calm. “As you’ve said, Mister Jopson. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

As if taking a cue from a play’s director, Jopson set a cup of tea in front of him. Francis tipped his chin, as he often did, in the direction of the decanter on the sideboard. The revelations of the afternoon called for something much stronger than plain black tea—he wasn’t entirely sure if he would be able to look his first lieutenant in the eye over dinner that evening. Or his steward, now, for that matter.


End file.
